


Fracture

by orphan_account



Category: Les Misérables (2012), Les Misérables - All Media Types, Les Misérables - Victor Hugo
Genre: Angst, Brief mentions of gore, Car Accidents, M/M
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2013-07-11
Updated: 2013-07-11
Packaged: 2017-12-19 03:19:13
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,133
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/878801
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"Jehan,” Combeferre began collectedly, but his voice quivered, “there has been an accident."</p>
            </blockquote>





	Fracture

**Author's Note:**

> Set some time after _Family_.

Combeferre had passed out some time ago when his phone blared on the table next to him, buzzing and rattling around frantically as if it _knew_. The man, who was not a good waker, stirred a bit, bones still heavy with exhaustion after performing a complicated surgery on a child, arriving home, and dealing with a rambunctious two year old Noel who had been wide awake at two in the morning. His phone vibrated for an entire minute before his hand grasped blindly for it, answering it just in time.

“Yeah?” He croaked out and was met with the muffled sound of loud sobbing and slurred indistinguishable words. The sobbing sounded familiar and he sat up, running a hand through his hair in slight panic as consciousness rushed into him all at once. “R? You need to calm down, _slow down_. Talk to me. What is it?”

“It’s Courfeyrac,” Grantaire sobbed from where he sat on the curb, looking down at where his bashed and bloodied friend laid, unmoving. He had managed to drag Courfeyrac out of further danger when his inebriated brain thought.. _Call Combeferre, he’ll know how to save him_. His hands were still shaking violently. “We were walking home and he saw a kitten in the road. He.. He ran over to save it but he _got hit_..”

Combeferre’s heart flew to his throat in alarm, and Joly stirred from beside of him when he scrambled out of bed, getting dressed. He evened out his voice. “Grantaire, listen to me. Is he breathing?”

Combeferre heard shuffling around on the other line when Grantaire confirmed that Courfeyrac was still breathing, and Combeferre let out a gust of air he didn’t realize that he was holding. “Do not move him anymore, he could have neck injuries. Have you called an ambulance?” 

“What?” Grantaire gasped through his tears, and he shook his head. “No, I _didn’t_ know what to do, ‘Ferre. He’s bleeding and..”

“Call an ambulance, _now_!” Combeferre’s voice rose, causing Joly to jolt a little and Noel to cry from the next room, scared at the level that his Papa’s voice had taken. “I’ll meet you at the hospital in ten minutes.”  

Grantaire ended the call and fumbled with his phone to reach the emergency operator, telling them in a rush what had happened and the current condition of Courfeyrac whose chest was still moving with shallow breaths. The kitten purred and curled up next to the man’s unconscious body, and if Grantaire wasn’t so drunk, he would have probably puked a long time ago. Blood was pooling underneath the man’s mess of brown curls, and there were broken bones actually _visible_ in his leg. His shoulder was completely and obviously dislocated.

When the ambulance arrived, Grantaire had just enough time to scoop up the kitten into his arms and climb into the back with his friend. The kitten meowed quietly.

 

 

 

*

As soon as Combeferre rushed into the hospital and straight up to the third floor to their ICU unit, his heart was hammering in his chest and his breathing was erratic. Grantaire, his inky curls tangled with blood from where he had run his hands through it repeatedly, was waiting for his friend, and as soon as he saw Combeferre, he let out a broken noise before flinging himself into the other’s arm. His shirt was stained with crimson, and he reeked of a mixture of alcohol, cigarettes, and strong metallic.

“I... I didn’t know what to _do_ ,” Grantaire choked out, his fingers curling into the fabric of Combeferre’s shirt. The taller man steadied his friend with capable hands, feigning calm. “The kitten just.. _ran_ out into the street and Courfeyrac tried to save it.” He shook his head, swallowing hard. “We didn’t even see the fucking car.”

Combeferre shushed him quietly before looking over to the chairs where Grantaire’s jacket laid, fixed into a small nest. The kitten was curled up in the middle, sleeping.

“Have you called Enjolras?” Combeferre asked, stepping away from Grantaire and leading them to take a seat. Grantaire looked down at his hands which were trembling.  

“He’s going to be so mad at me.” Grantaire’s voice was just above a whisper. “I didn’t mean to fuck up this time, I didn’t, ‘Ferre. We just _didn’t see the car_ and-”

Combeferre interrupted him, touching his arm. “Courfeyrac is going to be fine.”

Though, he had no idea if that was true because had _no_ clue what kind of shape Courfeyrac was in. It all depended on how fast the car was going and where he was hit. There could be long term brain damage if he hit his head hard enough or permanent injuries to his nerves. Combeferre had seen his fair share of bad accidents, but he could not let Grantaire know that.

Grantaire let out a sudden alarmed noise and slumped over, his head in his hands. “ _Shit_... What about Jehan? I didn’t even... I didn’t call him.”

Combeferre nodded, though he felt sick. And Combeferre _never_ felt sick when it came to medical emergencies. He was always calm and level-headed, approaching situations logically. Now he just wanted to cry because his best friend could be _dying_ and now Combeferre had to call his husband to break the news. He knew Jehan was strong but this is _Courfeyrac_.

“I’ll call Jehan,” Combeferre muttered, laying a reassuring hand on Grantaire’s shoulder before leaving him to find a quieter place to talk.

Jehan answered after three and a half rings.

“Hello?” the poet sighed almost musically, having been woken from sleep.

“Jehan,” Combeferre began collectedly, but his voice quivered, “there has been an accident. Courf has been... he’s hurt, but I don’t know how badly yet. I’m going to have Enjolras come pick you up and take you to the hospital, alright?”

There was a long pause of silence on the other end, not even the quiet acknowledgement of breathing. Combeferre closed his eyes in worry when _finally_ he heard a voice, smaller and so quiet that Combeferre almost missed it.

“Is he dead, ‘Ferre?”

Combeferre slipped off his glasses and pressed the heel of his hand to his eyes with a sigh. “Jehan. I’m not going to let that happen, I won’t. Enj will be right there.”

“Okay.” And then there was a click.

After Combeferre called Enjolras, the man leaping in action with complete authority, the man flashed his badge to the desk and went into the back. The hallway was a chaotic mess of doctors and nurses working to stabilize Courfeyrac because there was apparent head trauma, and the bones in Courfeyrac’s legs would have to be reset. Combeferre lingered outside of the room but he managed to see a glimpse of his friend. It was bad, much worse than what Combeferre was expecting, but there _was_ hope.

An older gentleman walked out of the room, removing his gloves and face mask, and saw Combeferre leaning against the wall. He approached Combeferre with a grim smile. Doctor Mabeuf was one of their oldest and best doctors; he had helped Combeferre so much when he was fresh-faced and straight out of medical school.

“Doctor Combeferre,” Doctor Mabeuf greeted him gravely. “I thought you went home hours ago.”

“I did.” Combeferre spoke like he had no air in his lungs, and he nodded towards the room. “I know him.”

The last three words almost sent Combeferre to his knees, and he was suddenly thrust back in time to when he was a very small child. His mother had left him alone in the park as she chatted with a friend, and Combeferre was approached by a boy with dark curls and a wicked grin. He had asked Combeferre if he wanted to come look for frogs with him. They were best friends before dark.

Combeferre brushed away a single tear that escaped from the corner of his eyes.

“Ah.” Mabeuf frowned and looked back at the bandaged man. “Would you like to take over?”

Combeferre shook his head. “No, but I would like to help.”

He left the scene to go back to where the employee bathrooms and lockers were. There were spare scrubs left on the counter, and he was in the middle of changing when he noticed that his phone had five missed calls all from Joly. He tugged the blue shirt over his head just as he hit the call button. Joly answered, his voice a little slurred from sleep.

“Babe,” Joly sighed with an obvious frown, “what’s happening? All I heard was Courfeyrac and accident before you left.”

“Courfeyrac was hit by a car,” Combeferre explained, slumping against the sink. The words were growing harder and harder to say. “I’m doing everything I can to help.” He wasn’t going to say _help save him_ but that’s what he felt.

“Shit..” Joly breathed out then, bless him, asked, “Do you need me to do anything?”

“No, love.” Combeferre shook his head with a tiny hint of a grateful smile. “Come down later when Noel is done sleeping. I’ll call you if anything changes.”

He heard Joly hum. “I love you, ‘Ferre. He’s going to be okay.”

Combeferre wished so much that he believed that completely. “I love you too.”

As soon as they hung up, Combeferre stashed his cell phone, clothes, and wallet inside of his locker. Then, running a hand through his hair, joined his co-workers who were still working in a frenzy.  

 

 

 

*

Outside in the waiting room, Grantaire was petting the kitten absently, his eyes focused on the door leading to the backroom. He was so lost in numb thought that he didn’t hear even hear Enjolras calling his name. It wasn’t until the blond, who had crouched in front of him, his eyes fierce with worry, cradled the artist’s face that Grantaire snapped out of his trance, and he felt the air in him deflate.

“Enjolras..” He began, his voice quiet and far off. He tore his gaze from his fiance to find Jehan standing nearby, the poet’s small frame swallowed up in a too large sweater, his eyes red-rimmed but his facial features nearly stoic. Something inside Grantaire broke, and he could hear his own sob before he could feel it. “I’m so sorry. I didn’t...”

Enjolras shook his head quickly, his hands now on Grantaire’s shoulders, and kissed the man. “ _No_. You’re not going to apologize for something you didn’t do, ‘Taire. You _couldn’t_ have known.”

Grantaire blinked away the tears that flooded his vision and moved the kitten before standing up to envelope Jehan in a tight hug. The smaller man was tense, his entire body locked up, but he wrapped his arms around Grantaire nonetheless. Jehan tried to ignore the thick scent of blood on Grantaire’s skin, blood that he knew belonged to Courfeyrac. Enjolras, still reeling from the initial phone call by Combeferre, took a seat and glanced at the clock.

“Combeferre in there?” Enjolras nodded towards the double doors, and Grantaire pulled away from Jehan to nod. They joined Enjolras, sitting as close to one another as possible. Jehan held onto Grantaire’s hand tightly, the circles beneath his eyes dark and having still said nothing, while Grantaire leaned against Enjolras’s shoulder and allowed the man to stroke his blood-caked hair in soothing repetitive movements. The kitten remain curled up on Grantaire’s jacket, unaware of what was going on around it. The television murmured infomercials from the corner but no one really paid attention.

Enjolras spared a glanced towards Jehan, and he felt the extreme urge to fold the poet into his arms and never let go. Jehan’s resolve remained detached and calm, but Enjolras, who had gotten to know him so well, could sense the fear radiating off of him. But he knew he wouldn’t break. Jean Prouvaire was a fighter, the most fearless comrade he had, and he knew that no one was allowed to see him vulnerable.

They spent several hours in tense silence before Combeferre walked out, looking pale and shaken but relieved. Jehan stood up as soon as he saw him, and Combeferre enveloped the smaller man as Jehan returned the embrace.

“How is he?” Jehan asked when they pulled away, the end of his sentence breaking a little.

“Alive,” Combeferre exhaled. “There was head trauma, and we had to put him into a medically induced coma until the swelling goes down.” Jehan felt his throat tighten at this, but he nodded for Combeferre to continue. “The entire right side of his body was dislocated from the impact, but the bones have been reset. There is chance for short-term memory loss, but he’s alive.”

Jehan seemed to deflate in relief, and he nodded tiredly before leaning up to peck Combeferre’s cheek. “Thank you.”

Combeferre pressed a fond kiss into Jehan’s hair and rolled his sleeves up. “No need for that.”

“Go home and rest.” Enjolras spoke from the chairs, Grantaire in his lap and looking more wrecked than before now that he was sobering up. Combeferre smiled a little, shaking his head.

“Joly should be here soon to take over so I think I’ll just rest in the breakroom.” He looked over at Grantaire, the man pale and exhausted and small in Enjolras’s arms. “Go home and shower, ‘Taire. It could be a couple of hours or even days until Courfeyrac is awake.”

Grantaire moved to stand up, rubbing at his eyes with a nod, and Enjolras followed suit, a hand on the small of his fiance’s back protectively. “I’ll look after Noel, ‘Ferre. We can go by your place and pick him up while you and Joly are here.”

Combeferre gave his best friend a warm smile, knowing all too well that children were not Enjolras’s forte. Noel was different, however, wiggling his way into all of his godparents’ hearts, especially Enjolras who had a fondness towards the toddler. Combeferre was surprised that he had not taught the two year old how to overthrow the government.

“Thanks, Enj.” He walked over and clasped his friend’s shoulder, and he turned towards the poet who was still standing, waiting. “You can see him now, Jehan. I’ll be there to check on him in a bit; I need to call Joly.”

Jehan brushed his hands against his sweater and shakily headed for Courfeyrac’s room as the others parted their ways. The hallway was an endless pattern of doors, occasionally a nurse or doctor would rush by; the heavy scent of sanitizer and plain soap hung in the air. Jehan hated the artificial smell just as much as he hated hospitals in general. There was nothing warm or comforting about them. He was impressed by Combeferre and Joly’s tolerance towards the mingle of chaos and blood and sharp utensils.

When Jehan stepped inside Courfeyrac’s room, he was cautious and slow, not certain what sort of image existed behind the door. He was hopeful that Courfeyrac was alive and breathing, but he knew that the injuries could have been fatal. He closed his eyes, bracing himself, as he closed the door and when he opened them, he felt the entire room swim, his vision blurring.

Courfeyrac, normally muscled and tan and vibrant, like summer and warmth and happiness, was hooked up to a number of machines, each beeping in rhythm. His hair was matted with blood and his face was swollen dark purple. The right side of him was plastered and wrapped up in white, though stains of red were still visible. He looked so small, like a fly caught in a spiderweb.

Jehan’s knees hit hard on the floor when he collapsed, and an agonizing noise of grief escaped the back of his throat as his fingers twisted into the fabric of his sweater. The sobs that wracked his body were violent and heavy, painful and breathless. All his fight, his strength, dissolved into a puddle onto the floor to be swept away. The panic and worry that had been fighting throughout his body spilled out all at once, and he felt his lungs ache because he couldn’t figure out how to breathe again.

 _What if he died_  had echoed in his brain over and over and over again, and it was soon replaced with a frantic _what if he dies_. It was like a chant that hadn’t gone away over the past couple of hours, and even now it still existed. He wanted to crawl into the bed with Courfeyrac and hold him close and whisper to him that everything was going to be okay. He wanted to feel him breathing because he needed actual proof that he was alive. He did not want his husband, _his soulmate_ , surrounded by tubes and wires and machines. He did not want to see Courfeyrac small and helpless because he was anything but that.

He wanted to tell Courfeyrac that he loved him and for him to never scare him like that again.

Jehan remained on the floor because he felt it physically impossible to move. He was still crying, fat tears that rolled down his cheek and into the material of his sweater, but the broken noises that he had been making were now quiet snuffles. His body trembled.

He was there for some time when Combeferre walked in, expecting to see Jehan curled up like a cat in the chair next to Courfeyrac’s bed and holding his hand. When the poet, whom he had never seen weak, was in a heap on the ground instead, something inside of Combeferre twisted achingly. He slid onto the floor next to his small friend and scooped him up bodily into his arms, holding him close.

Jehan sobbed into the cotton material of his scrubs and Combeferre cried as well, releasing all the pent up emotions of horror and _worry_ in a stream of hot tears. Courfeyrac was to both of them something special, and they had almost _lost_ him. The clock on the wall ticked along for what seemed like hours before Jehan’s form slid out of Combeferre’s grasp, and he stood to join his husband’s side, not touching but simply staring his chest.

Combeferre, gathering himself from the floor as well, worked quietly as he checked to make sure Courfeyrac’s vital signs were stable before joining the poet’s side. He placed a hand on Jehan’s shoulder.

“Will he truly be okay, ‘Ferre?” He asked quietly, moving his gaze to Combeferre.

“The healing is going to take some time,” Combeferre admitted, but he smiled gently. “But he’ll be back soon enough. He’s strong, Jehan. Courfeyrac would never let a car accident keep him back.”

Jehan snorted a little at this and nodded, looking back at his husband, where his gaze would remain until he was able to see those beautiful, brown eyes once more.

**Author's Note:**

> We are planning on posting a series of vignettes which peek into the life of Jehan and Courfeyrac (mainly) with the rest of the boys thrown into the mix. They will consist of little snippets about various things that tickle our fancy!
> 
> Along with reading our series, feel free to follow both of us on Tumblr:
> 
> Rachel: beaumarbre.tumblr.com  
> Ashley: billypronto.tumblr.com


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